


To Build a Home

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Being A Good Step-Dad, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mentioned Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Build, Spoiler but Isn't a Spoiler, Spoilers, Training, Yennefer Being a Mom, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, how is that not a tag?, post season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Whatever forces control the world – be it spirits or gods or something else entirely – they seem keen on making sure that the girl is delivered into his care. Two Law of Surprises enacted, years separating them, both concerning that Geralt be given the same person. If that isn’t destiny, he thinks to himself, then he isn’t sure what is.Or, Geralt of Rivia is suddenly a Dad and it's Completely Fine and He Can Handle It.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 134
Kudos: 1550





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is more of a set-up, friends. I was just going to write my Geralt/Jaskier thing and be done with it, but then realised I love writing little snippets of Geralt's life now with Ciri. And these thoughts he's having in this will become VERY relevant later.

Whatever forces control the world – be it spirits or gods or something else entirely – they seem keen on making sure that the girl is delivered into his care. Two Law of Surprises enacted, years separating them, both concerning that Geralt be given the same person. If that isn’t destiny, he thinks to himself, then he isn’t sure what is.

Zola places a bowl of stew in front of him. The house is modest, sheltered by a forest on all sides, but seems to be far enough away from the falling city. No one makes to move away. Zola continues to pour food out for those gathered around the wooden table, while Yurga fetches more firewood from the shed towards the back of the house.

Geralt eats, content to let the silence sitting over them sit for a moment longer. It’s broken every so often by a soft sigh from Zola, or the whining of the family dog from the hearth. Geralt regards the animal. A mangy-looking thing, it keeps looking to the main door to the house. It probably senses the explosions in the forest. Every whine is a reminder that there are other people interested in the girl.

The girl watches him out of the corner of her eye, in between picking at pieces of bread. She hasn’t eaten much of the food that was placed in front of her almost ten minutes ago. But Geralt looks back. She looks thin, too thin for a girl of her age. But in the time she has spent running from her home, through woodlands and out of the reach of Nilfgaard soldiers, he supposes her appetite has been left behind.

 _You’ll need to eat_ , he wants to say to her. _I don’t know where I’ll take you, but you’ll need your strength_.

He knows that Zola knows – that Yurga enacted the Law of Surprise on Geralt’s behalf. The child is his now. She’ll have to let her go. If that’s why she hasn’t said more than five words to him since sitting himself down at her table, then he understands. Then again, he’s grown used to people not talking to him over lesser reasons.

There’s a boy, too. Geralt ignores the inquisitive stares being bore into him from the lad, seated opposite Ciri. Eventually, the boy’s gaze moves from him, and to his two sheathed swords resting against the table’s edge.

The boy’s mouth opens, but anything that was going to come out of it is halted entirely when Yurga steps back into the house. His arms are laden with heavy blocks of wood. “Right,” Yurga huffs, setting the blocks down by the hearth. “That should do us for the night.”

He dusts his hands on his tunic, surveying the room.

“The main road is a five-minute ride west of here,” he says, regarding Ciri for a second. “If you keep following it north, it should take you to the nearest town.”

Geralt grunts. “I think we’ll avoid the main roads for the time being.” Even though the air sits still now, the Nilfgaardian armies may not have wandered far.

And then there’s the question that’s been stalking around in his mind.

_Where the fuck am I going to take you?_

When their belies are full and Geralt's leg has been seen to, he heads outside. Roach knickers softly as Geralt approaches her. He still walks with a limp. The muscles in his leg shake and throb as the last of the necrophage’s bite heals. As he approaches the mare, she bows her head, sniffing at the cloth tie around his thigh. Geralt huffs, patting Roach’s neck. “I’ve gotten out of worse.”

The mare snorts.

“I have,” Geralt argues, picking some dirt out of her mane. “I’m not going to let a nercophage of all things be the last of me.”

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps. Looking over his shoulder, Geralt relaxes at the sight of Ciri. Her fingers fidget by her side. Zola had given her clothes to wear, warming things made out of wool and cotton to stave off the cold. But she still wears the cobalt blue cape. Geralt sets his jaw. It would be easier for them if she remained anonymous. A cape that well made stands out in this part of the continent. But he understands its importance to her. And she’s carried it all this way so far.

 _Who is Yennefer?_ It’s one of a myriad of questions that continue to stalk around his mind. They’ll haunt him like shadows for the next couple of days. As soon as he seems to understand one thing, something else comes along to beat the wind out of him.

Ciri glances over to Roach. A small, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of her lip when the mare paws at the ground.

Geralt brushes Roach’s muzzle gently with the back of his knuckles. “Be nice,” he mumbles to the mare. Looking over to Ciri, he inclines his head. “Do you want to pet her?”

She regards the horse for a minute, before stepping forward. Roach, to her credit, and Geralt’s relief, doesn’t move a muscle. When Ciri’s hand comes to rest on Roach’s muzzle, the mare snorts softly, before pushing it into Ciri’s palm.

The air is so still now. Not an hour ago, an attack was taking place a couple of miles from here. Now, all that’s left is a gaunt quiet.

Both Yurga and Zola join them by the entrance of the stable. Yurga directs him on where to go; the main road would get them far away quicker, but soldiers may be marching on it. And while he’s sure he can fight off Nilfgaardian boys who have never so much as held a sword, then swung it in battle, Geralt has to think of Ciri now. Something greater than himself is tying him to the girl. And he made a promise to her grandmother.

Zola hands him a pack. Bread, cheese, some cured meats, all wrapped in a linen cloth. Enough food to carry them for at least three days. Geralt nods a _thank you_ before tying it to Roach’s saddle. Ciri still stands by the mare’s head, trailing her fingers lightly over the mare’s jaw.

The woman wanders over to Ciri, bowing slightly to her height. Geralt tries not to watch. There’s something in Zola’s eyes that reminds him too much of pain. “Stay safe, girl,” she says tightly, tucking a stray strand of Ciri’s hair behind her ear. “I hope we get to meet again someday.”

* * *

All other roads from the south are too damaged to use. Geralt barely contains a curse once he learns that, despite the cold, churning feeling in his stomach, he’ll have to take the main road. He has Roach’s reins gathered up, and his heels rest against her side: ready to launch into a gallop if needs be. He tries not to tense: if he’s on edge, then so is she. And so is the girl sitting in front of him.

Ciri fiddles with the hair on Roach’s withers, braiding the shorter strands together and making them lie flat against her neck. Geralt looks down every so often, wondering how in Melitele’s name Roach is allowing it. If anything, the mare seems to be enjoying it; occasionally puffing air and snorting.

As long as the sun is perched in the sky, they keep following the main road. There is a northerly bite to the air. Winter winds are starting to travel down from the mountains. The sun can barely fight through the thicket of clouds that slump over the hills. Geralt shrugs his shoulders. “Are you cold?”

Ciri doesn’t stop weaving strands of Roach’s mane together. “No,” she eventually replies. Her voice is soft, barely carrying itself into the air. If it were anyone else, they may not have heard her at all. But Geralt does. He hums, and goes back to looking at the road ahead. It stretches on for what could be leagues. Other dirt roads eventually join it, as do other travellers. He watches them out of the corner of his eye. Solo riders trot by – hunters, mostly, with bows slung over their shoulders and snares tied to the saddle of their mounts. Occasionally, a caravan will join them. Merchants and their wares trudge by. Sometimes, it’s a cart laden with a field’s harvest. If winter is going to settle in this early, Geralt supposes it would be wise for the farmers to haul their produce in now.

Ciri shuffles slightly, setting her back against Geralt’s chest. The movement barely disturbs Roach.

The road’s surface fades from pressed and worn-down dirt into cobblestones within a league. With the change come more people on the road. Geralt bristles slightly at the sight of what seems to be refugees; their belongings either bundled in their arms or on their backs, or stuffed on to an ox-drawn cart.

Ciri must see them too. Her head bows slightly. Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You’re alright,” he says quietly. Even the elderly couple hobbling next to Roach don’t pick up on his words. “Nothing is going to harm you. I’ll keep you safe.”

The town they eventually wander into isn’t meant for many people. Those who they walked with keep going, following the main road straight through the town and on to the next. Those who stay tether their horses to hitches out front. A couple of inns open their doors, beckoning people in for food and rest.

They should keep going. But Geralt looks up at the sky. The sun is gone now, smothered behind grey, heavy clouds. Geralt blinks. Rain seems on the way.

He brings them to one of the last taverns in the town. A maid is outside, directing a caravan to the next town. Geralt pulls Roach up. “Any room left?”

The woman regards him for a second. He knows the look. The look that goes from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes. But something catches the woman’s eyes. Softens them. The girl sitting in front of him. He can only imagine what they look like: what she imagines that they look like.

“Were you caught up in the attack?” the maid asks, setting her arms crossed over her chest.

Geralt nods.

A long, tired-sounding sigh leaves the woman. “I’m sure we can fit you somewhere,” she says, gesturing to a small alley separating the tavern from a neighbouring building. “Stables ‘round the back. My brother can take your horse there.”

Geralt quickly learns that none of the taverns has been taking coin for the people rushing into them. _Bastards burned straight through my fields_ , he hears a farmer hiss from one side of the tavern. _The land is ruined._

Ciri curls in on herself. The bowl of stew that the maid set in front of her has been touched. Geralt tears off some grain bread that the maid left them. “Eat something,” he says, nodding to the bowl. She eventually does, moving chunks of potato and carrot and stewed meat around in her bowl. Geralt watches her. It takes almost half an hour for her to eat, but she does.

The tavern isn’t as loud as it should be. Normally, with warm food and good ale sitting on tables, people are talkative. But there’s only a hum of conversation in the tavern. Everyone who can’t find it in themselves to speak keep their heads down, picking at their own food. Geralt sighs. When the door opens, letting in more travellers, he catches a glimpse of the sky. It’s starting to darken.

“You didn’t answer me,” Ciri suddenly says. It occurs to Geralt that this is the most words he’s heard come out of her. When he looks back at the girl, a slight frown furrows her brow. “In the forest. You didn’t answer me when I asked who Yennefer is.”

He grunts into his tankard. After a measured sip of ale, he drums the fingers of his free hand against the table. “A sorceress.” And he leaves it at that.

Ciri doesn’t. “Do you know where she is?”

The bow of Geralt’s lip threatens to lift into a snarl. She’s a child, he has to remind himself. She doesn’t know any better. “No,” he mutters, finishing the last of his drink.

* * *

The more towns they put behind them, the more of Nilfgaard’s shadow they leave behind. The Emperor – or whoever the fuck it is in charge these days – seems content with just securing the south of the continent for now. Until he intends on setting his sights somewhere else, Geralt keeps them moving northwards.

Nights spent in forest clearings are few and far between now. It was something he had grown used to, when it had been just him and Roach. The mare would contently graze nearby, always a sharp whistle away, while Geralt slept. When he travelled with others, they didn't mind. Bed rolls and tents sheltered by canopies, or else out in meadows and clearings. There was never any complaint. Well, Geralt can think of some who complained.

He catches himself every so often. When he thinks of people he’s met, or more accurately, those who have stayed with him for longer than a week, he starts to feel them. Like afterimages, their likenesses will flash before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he’ll see what seems to be the soft blue of Jaskier’s doublet, or the dark train of Yennefer’s dress. And he’ll turn, only to find nothing.

But with the child, he tries his best to cover as much ground as he can during the day, in order to have a roof over their head. They’ve stayed in the upstairs rooms of taverns, inns, even the barn of a shepherd who took pity on them. Well, took pity on Ciri.

After a night spent at a farrier’s home, Ciri adjusts the girth of Roach’s saddle. The mare’s tail swishes, probably aiming for the girl’s face. “Stop it,” she huffs with a small smile, patting the mare’s neck. “Just making sure that we don’t fall off.” Really, she should have her own mount. But Geralt’s keen to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s safe. And if that means Roach has to bear the weight of her master and Ciri, then so be it.

The farrier’s home sits among fallowed fields that stretch out towards the horizon. Each of their harvests has been brought in before the winter, and the oncoming war, can settle in. Ciri finishes securing the last of their packs on to Roach’s saddle. Bread and cured meats will keep them going for a couple of days, until they can reach the next town.

When Geralt joins them, it’s a couple of minutes later. Roach snorts in greeting, tugging softly at where she’s tied to the stable door. Geralt looks her over. “Everything secured?”

Ciri nods.

“Next town should be a day’s ride that way,” the farrier gestures down a dirt road. Geralt nods, gathers Roach’s reins, and leads them out of the barn. They aren’t the first people to stay here. The farrier and his wife told them of others who came in the days before: all fleeing the south and heading as far north as they can.

He hoists Ciri up on to Roach’s back first. The mare cranes her neck around, and noses at the toe of Ciri’s boot. The girl nudges her away with a soft smile. Geralt follows up, adjusting them both, making sure that Roach can bare the two of them for the walk ahead.

The farrier folds his arms. “Are ya sure ya don’t want another horse for the wee’un?”

Geralt regards the man for a second before shaking his head. “We can manage.”

“Thank you,” Ciri says after a time. Peering up at Geralt, she lifts her brow at the look he gives her.

He’s pretty sure he’s been all over the continent at least once. That’s bound to happen when your age starts hitting triple digits. He visits some places more than others: towns that are more hospitable to his kind, and don’t mind him eating their food and sleeping in their beds. He knows that the road they’re on no goes to one of those towns. It’s a small thing, but too big to be called a village. In the days they’ve spent travelling, Ciri’s tongue has loosened. They make idly conversation as Roach plods along the road. She asks him questions, mostly. When she learned that he wouldn’t release any more information on Yennefer, she started asking him about other things. What exactly _is_ a Witcher? Are there any more of them? What is the biggest monster he’s killed?

And for the most part, Geralt answers them. To be honest, his answers come as grunts or just a couple of words, but he answers.

She asks him about magic. Can he do it? What does it feel like?

But she can do magic too. He hasn’t seen it, but he feels it. Something settles and sits over her like an aura.

“It’s different,” she says, looking up at him. “What I can do...isn’t good.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

She fidgets with the fabric of her cloak, tightening it around her when a particularly bitter wind rushes up through the road. “I...I don’t know what happened, but when I was running from Cintra, I, I was attacked by some boys I knew.”

Geralt’s grip on the reins tightens. If it weren’t for his gloves, she’d be able to see how white his knuckles turn.

“Nothing happened,” she rushes, maybe feeling how still he is. “I remember that I, I screamed and...everything around me was destroyed.”

Geralt frowns. _Chaos_.

 _She can’t control her chaos_.

She looks up at him. Bright, wide blue eyes blinking up at him. “What I can do, it isn’t good. It doesn’t help anyone. It just kills.”

Geralt sets his jaw. “You’ll learn how to control it,” he says simply. It must be enough for her to hear, at least for now, because Ciri turns back to look out on to the road.

Geralt swallows a sigh.

_He’ll need Yennefer._

_She’ll need Yennefer_.


	2. Chapter 2

Even with the continent being as sprawling and vast as it is, word tends to travel quickly. With refugees flooding the main roads, streaming into towns and villages on the way north, rumour of a legion of mages and sorceresses fighting back against the first wave of Nilfgaardian soldiers comes with it. The rumour is an old one. It’s dated to around when Cintra fell. But still, it’s something.

Geralt listens. The tavern is quiet; the sun is perched high in the middle of the sky, and most townsfolk will still be in the fields just outside of the town, hauling in the last of the crops. With winter and war intent on settling over the continent together, farmers are set to bring in their harvests now, rather than let either the harsh winter winds or fire from war destroy it.

A couple of smithing apprentices take their lunch in the tavern, seated around a small wooden table, chatting over a few bowls of stew and flagons of ale. Geralt sits nearby, head bowed, but ears tuned into what’s being said.

_They put up some fight, apparently_ , one of them mutters around a mouthful of stew.

Another man shrugs, his face blackened with forge smoke. _Well, it wasn’t good enough. Those Nilfgaard bastards still managed to get through_.

_Aye, but it could have been much worse_.

The lankier of the men snorts into his flagon. _How?_

The first man sets his bowl down, leaning forward to mutter, _Rowan told me that he saw one of the mages light the fields on fire._

_What?_

_A sorceress stood on some boulder or something, and set fire to the whole grassland. Burnt the bastards who were there and chased off the ones that were nearby._

Geralt hums. That’s a rumour he’s heard before in the past couple of days. Even when he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, being transported to Yurga’s stead, he could scent smoke on the air.

The lankier of the apprentices snorts. _Bullshit. Where you there?_

_No! But Rowan isn’t a liar. He knows what he saw._

“What does this mean?”

Geralt doesn’t jolt. There aren’t a lot of things in this world that take him by surprise anymore. It comes with being as old as he is, and seeing the things that he’s seen. But for a brief moment, while listening to the men, he completely forgot about the girl sitting at the table beside him. He looks over to her, arms folded on the table, hunched over a leather-bound book. “What?”

She points at one of the words on the page. “What does this mean?”

Legs of chairs scrape against the floorboards. Geralt glances over his shoulder and watches the smiths leave. He sighs. _At least she had been seen_ , he thinks, before turning back to Ciri. As the weeks have trudged by, her weariness around him has waned. Whether she has just made peace with the fact that she’s his, or if she’s genuinely entrusting herself into his care, he isn’t sure. But she doesn’t shy away anymore when he leans into her space.

“A _hym_ ,” Geralt says, pointing out one of the few sketches he managed to do of the creature. It’s a formless thing. All spectres tend to be, in one way or another. But the few times he’s come into contact with them, they’ve all looked like whispering shrouds of black mist. Geralt points to a paragraph further down on the page. “They can be nasty if you don’t have your wits about you.”

Ciri reads the paragraph to herself, tilting her head when she’s finished. “How do you kill it?”

Geralt takes the book, flicking through a couple of pages. He’d prefer to show her. Doing things practically, especially in this line of work, tends to work best. But she’s still so young, and he would rather lay down his own life than take someone like Ciri into a haunted space with him.

It isn’t lost on him that he was younger than Ciri when his training started. But with all that he’s been through, with all that’s been done to him, he wants to keep that far away from her. She’ll adapt. She’ll find her own ways of defending herself. But until then, it doesn’t help to make her aware of what’s out in the world.

Geralt sets the book back down. “Putting some spectre oil on to a silver sword can help weaken it, but to kill it, you need to exorcise it.”

Ciri nods. He flicks the next page over. “I’ll teach you all of that later.” Ciri, thankfully, doesn’t chase with more questions after that. She buries her head back into the book, with strands of white-gold hair falling out of her braid and curtaining her face.

* * *

Word travels quickly about all sorts of things. As weeks trudge by, rumours start to sound the same; war, refugees, winter weather, the sorceresses that lit the fields near the pass alight. If he’s not careful, Geralt’s mind just might start ignoring them, thinking that they’re nothing but noise. He gets sick of hearing the same thing. It’s not helpful, listening to a tavernkeep complain about the harvest not being plentiful enough for the town, or sentry soldiers along the town’s walls grumbling about the sudden hoards of refugees flooding in and out.

Still though, he keeps listening. All he needs is a location; a province, if anything. During the night, when sleep only comes to visit Ciri, and he stays awake watching over her, he’ll let himself think and mull over their situation. He could start travelling with Ciri – actively start seeking out Yennefer, wherever she might be.

But the continent is sprawling, and with a war engulfing the bottom of it, making people travel, he doesn’t want to move, just in case he misses her. He’s missed too much already. He doesn’t want to repeat the couple of weeks of nonsense he had trying to find and meet Ciri.

There’s a forest surrounding the town; full of game, mostly, but there are whispers of creatures and monsters that used to stalk the shadows. Geralt goes out there alone, mainly to hunt their own food. If he can catch deer or hog or rabbit, he can give the meat to the innkeeper. He’s been a kind enough man to let Geralt and Ciri stay for much longer than they intended to. He doesn’t pay Geralt for the meat, but he does insist on taking some payment off of their room. And most of the food they get, except for the bread and vegetables, are free. For all that he can seem emotionless and uncaring, Geralt really does appreciate it.

He’s managed to save up some coin. He leaves Ciri in the care of the innkeep’s wife; a woman with kind eyes and a kinder smile, who lets Ciri into the kitchens with her to knead and prove bread dough whenever Geralt needs a rest. Content that she’s in safe hands, Geralt heads into the market square of the town. The blacksmith’s forge is nearby. The square itself is largely lined with shops and market stalls, selling just about anything and everything Geralt can think of. He finds the forge easily through the plumes of black smoke billowing out of a stone shed.

Inside, a handful of apprentices are stationed around benches, hammering out new blades, while others fashion leather near a tanning rack. Geralt recognises most of them from the tavern.

“Witcher.”

The word used to make him wince. He’s heard it uttered with every kind of intention throughout his life; more often than not, with malice. But Geralt looks over. Through a fresh plume of smoke, the smith steps around the lit forge. He rubs his hands on his apron, already black with soot. “What can I do for ya?”

Geralt hands over a small leather bag. “I need a blade,” he explains.

The smith’s eyes narrow slightly, but unlaces the tie of the bag and peers inside. After a quiet moment, Geralt lifts his chin. “You can work with silver, can’t you?” Because most can’t. A Witcher’s blade is something very few smiths can make properly. And he had been doubtful that a smith in a town this far away from Kaer Morhen would be able to.

But he isn’t asking for a sword. There’s enough ingot in the bag for a small dagger.

The smith regards him for a moment, but eventually nods. “I can have it for you by tomorrow morning,” he says gruffly, taking the bag of ingots over to a nearby smelter. The man looks over his shoulder. “You don’t mind if I take the coin for it now, do you? We’ve had swindlers come by here before.”

Geralt sets his jaw, but nods. He fishes out his coin purse; something that has grown lighter and lighter as the days have ticked by. But with a roof still over their heads, and an assurance that as long as Geralt hunts in the morning, there will be a warm meal for them in the evening, Geralt doesn’t have any issue with handing the rest of his coin over.

An apprentice wanders over just as the smith fishes out one piece of ingot. The outside of the nugget is still dull and cracked, being freshly mined from nearby. The apprentice turns to the smith. “D’you want help with that one?”

The smith slaps away a wandering hand. “No, boy. I’ll make this one personally.”

When Geralt leaves the forge and steps back into the market square, his eyes cut through the swells of people gathering supplies for the week and spots the familiar figures of the innkeeper’s wife and Ciri. He tilts his head. Large, craggily loaves of brown bread are stacked high in their arms, both of them heading from stall to stall dotted around the market. Each vendor thanks them profusely for the bread, some of them even trading some provisions like dried fruits and cheeses.

Geralt’s chest tightens. With her hair braided loosely back from her face, he sees a bright smile spread over the entirety of Ciri’s face. The first real, true smile he’s ever seen out of her. It had taken a couple of days for a conversation lasting more than two sentences to happen for them. And he can understand that with all Ciri has been through over the past number of weeks, she might not always be the most talkative or cheerful.

But looking at her now, keeping close to the innkeep’s wife’s side, helping whoever they can find, she’s never looked happier.

It won’t last. He knows that. There is still a winter to weather and a war to either flee and hide from, or defeat.

And Geralt has no fucking idea what he’s meant to do.

* * *

It’s easier now, leaving Ciri behind for short spaces of time. He can’t bring her everywhere; even though some part of him wants to, just to make sure that she’s safe, that she’s okay. But the innkeep’s wife has taken warm with Ciri, and Geralt trusts the kind woman to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.

It’s gotten to the point where, on his return from wandering around town, debating whether or not to take on a contract to start lining his pocket with gold again, he collects Ciri from the tavern’s bar. She’s barely enough to look over the high counter, but strong enough to carry multiple plates along her arms and tankards in her hands.

“She’s been a great help, Geralt,” the innkeep’s wife smiles when he steps inside. The woman then disappears to the other end of the tavern to serve more ale.

Geralt arches an eyebrow at the girl. “Maybe you should become a tavern maid.”

Ciri rolls her eyes. “I just like helping,” she says simply, wiping down the wooden table. Geralt follows her, keeping to her back like a shadow. Some people here aren’t too privy to a Witcher lingering within the town’s walls. To be fair, they aren’t particularly keen on having the refugees staying either. Geralt even heard about a miller and his wife flat out refusing to let a southern family of seven stay on their stead. Geralt doesn’t know where that family is now, and he doesn’t want to either. Not out of anything malicious, but he can’t bring himself to think about the morality of man. It’s too exhausting.

Ciri gathers up some empty plates, making idle chat with two tanners seated there. When she turns, she almost crashes right into Geralt’s chest. “Is something wrong?” she looks up at him.

“No.”

“Then why are you following me?” She rounds him, heading back for the bar. Handing the empty plates off to another young maid, Ciri folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t need you watching me every second of every day, you know.”

And he would laugh at the sight: a lithe girl, whose head barely brushes his chin, squaring up to him with all of the gall and assurance of her grandmother. There’s a fire that’s burning in there. It’s nothing more than embers now, heating her bones and blood. But it won’t take much of a spark to ignite it.

He almost forgets about the object in his hand. Geralt nods towards the staircase. “Come with me for a moment,” he says, “I have something for you.”

Leaving her rag and apron by the bar’s edge, Ciri follows close behind, scampering up the stairs trying to keep pace with Geralt. When they’ve reached their shared room, she looks him up and down for a second. “You have something for me?” she tilts her head. Suddenly, her eyes widen, and the ghost of a smile threatens to flash over her lips. “Like a present?”

Geralt tilts his head. “Of sorts.”

True to his word, the smith had it ready for him as soon as the sun hauled itself into the sky this morning. Wrapped in a lush felt cloth, is a leather sheath. Inside that is a silver dagger. It’s simple in its design, curved slightly, but lightweight. It’s not a sword, by any means, and once Ciri is old enough, he’ll take her to a proper smith’s to have her own sword crafted. But for now, this will do.

He holds it out to her and watches as she carefully undoes the felt wrap. The blade hisses as she unsheathes it. It catches a stray streak of sunlight as it shines in through the window. The silver glints. The blade is simple, with no ruins carved into the metal. Only Kaer Morhen’s forge can do that. But still, with a blade of silver, Ciri has some protection.

He kneels down to her height. “This,” Geralt pointedly looks at the blade, “is _not_ a toy. Do you understand?”

Ciri nods firmly. Her eyes are locked on to the blade.

“You’ll need to learn how to use it,” Geralt says.

“I’m a quick learner.”

“And practise every day.”

“What else would I be doing with my time?”

Geralt lifts his chin, a small smile threatening to tug at the corners of his lips.

* * *

Something isn’t quite right. Geralt has lived long enough, and been in too many situations to know when the air doesn’t sit quite right. It’s not a feeling unique to Witcher’s. Normal men get it too; when the hackles rise and all of a sudden, you just have the urge to go somewhere else, somewhere not _here_. But normal men usually notice that feeling when it’s too late. When whatever had disturbed the air is already stalking through the long grass, eyes locked on its prey, ready to pounce and teeth bared. Geralt, and Witchers, get it much earlier.

There’s a livery yard next-door to the tavern. In the past couple of days, it’s housed a number of passing soldiers, on their way south to deal with the Nilfgaardian threat. With the arrival of the soldiers, training mannequins and archery targets arrived too. Geralt tried not to roll his eyes. Half of the soldiers were seasoned: men with worn down expressions, grunting instead of talking, and with eyes that didn’t quite look present. The other half of the arm composed of boys: from stables and farms and noblemen’s sons who have never so much as picked up a sword, let alone swung one at another living person.

He keeps his comments about how potentially fucked the continent if _this_ is what is defending it to himself. At least, if Ciri is within earshot.

But as he watches Ciri train with one of the younger soldiers, working out how to string, knock, and draw a bow and arrow, Geralt’s head snaps to the side. Something in the air has changed. He stands up that bit straighter, looking around the yard and the nearby stables, the back of the tavern and the streets that lead out on to the main road through the town. Everything looks normal. Soldiers still converse among themselves, sharing bowls of stew and loaves of bread. Others take their blades to whetstones. But something is still...not quite right. Not wrong, but not right. Geralt’s eyes narrow. Even with so much stimulation around him, it all fades away bit by bit. Whatever is wrong, it’s not showing itself just yet. And that could be when it’s most deadly.

“Geralt!”

He looks back to Ciri. The girl wears a broad smile, bow lowered to her hip. With her other hand, she points at the target. “Look!”

Embedded into the straw target sitting at the other side of the yard is a single arrow, buried right into the centre. Some nearby archers applaud her, with others jokingly offering her positions in their ranks.

Geralt tries to stop the small growl bubbling up through his throat. He’d kill anyone or anything who would take the girl away from him. Instead, he makes sure his teeth are hidden behind a small smile. “Very good,” he aims at Ciri. The girl’s smile only spreads. 

“She’s a natural, Witcher,” the soldier says brightly, gesturing for her to knock another arrow.

It happens again; the air shifts.

Rounding the side of the tavern, stepping into the livery yard, is a female figure. The train of her dress is torn and tattered where it drags along the worn gravel of the ground, and a thick winter’s coat is sitting snugly around her shoulders.

All breath leaves him at once. He recognises the dark hair that tumbles down the length of her back. _It can’t be_ , he thinks, stepping forward towards the figure. Before he can even call out, the figure turns. Whatever would have been left in him is almost punched out.

“Yennefer.”

* * *

“She has magic,” Geralt says softly, keeping an eye on Ciri. Her chest rises and falls with every deep breath. Listening to it, it’s deep enough to mean that she’s asleep. Ciri shuffles every so often, eventually settling with her face buried into the pillow and a blanket wrapped tightly around herself.

“Magic?”

“Magic that she can’t use properly,” Geralt replies curtly. At Yennefer’s lifted chin, he continues. “She told me herself, before we got here. When she was running from Cintra, the power just...came out of her. She couldn’t control it, or what it did to whoever it was directed at.”

Yennefer sits back in her chair, running her fingers along the rim of her goblet. “I never knew her mother,” she says, looking up to see Ciri’s sleeping frame. “But magic can be inherited.”

“Then if it’s anything like Pavetta could do, then she needs to know how to temper it.” Something shadows along Geralt’s face. In the back of his mind, he wonders if Ciri’s powers and her emotions are tied together. He still remembers Calanthe’s attempted attack on Duny. He still can hear Pavetta’s scream, and the storm that followed.

That much power, brewing inside the body of a girl barely out of her childhood years, it’s enough to make the hair on his arms stand tall.

Geralt sighs. “She needs to be able to look after herself.”

Yennefer regards him for a second. “So you gifted her a knife? A _silver_ knife?”

“I got my first blade when I was younger than she is now,” Geralt says, taking a small sip of ale. It won’t do anything for him. It’s been a long time since he drank enough to warrant even someone like him being able to get drunk. But if Yennefer is drinking, he might as well keep her company.

He can feel Yennefer’s stare boring into the side of his face, but he takes another sip of ale, hoping that she won’t press for his history.

A log in the hearth crackles, and some embers leap out on to the wooden floorboards. Yennefer extends a leg and quenches the ember with the toe of her boot. “I’ll speak with her in the morning,” she eventually says. The low timbre of her voice is soothing, like that of a mother’s – Geralt suddenly realises. When he does look over at her, he tries to keep his expression neutral when he sees something resembling sadness sitting in her eyes. But it’s gone in an instant, hidden behind a stone wall that she tends to haul up whenever he’s around. Yennefer clears her throat. “It’s been a long day,” she sighs, slowly rising to her feet. “Tell her to come to my room in the morning. I’ll start her training then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be done earlier, but my brain had a Big Sad so I couldn't work on anything. 
> 
> Next chapter; a Bard gets his damn Apology because Geralt Is Mean and Needs to Apologise


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooo. This chapter is...long. Not beta'd at all so this is probably riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes, and if you do happen upon a sentence that just...ends in the middle, know that I had every intention of finishing said sentence but I got tired or my brain shut down. 
> 
> I'll see ya'll on the other side.

She’s a Source.

Her mother was a Source too. Magic is usually inherited, so even within Pavetta around to examine, Yennefer thinks it most likely that it came straight from Pavetta’s blood.

He’s heard of them before. People with a strong affinity for magic, but don’t have the right means of managing it. Aretuza used to help Sources when they were still children; although some may say that _help_ isn’t quite the right word. Nowadays there’s a Chapter of Wizards keeping an eye on anyone presented as a Source, offering their help when needed. Geralt stiffens. He wonders if the Chapter have heard of Ciri yet. Surely not. How many people has the girl encountered that are still alive? It’s harsh, but it’s what is keeping her safe.

Tempered with the right hand, it can be managed and controlled, causing no harm to the person, or those around them. The moment Ciri woke up the next morning, he brought her to Yennefer. And to say they got on like a house on fire is probably the greatest understatement he could think of.

“Geralt told me that you have magic,” Yennefer says softly – in a tone of voice Geralt hasn’t heard the sorceress use all that often. At Ciri’s shy nod, Yennefer’s eyes soften. She holds out her hand and in her palm, conjures a small illusion of a flame. Ciri’s eyes widen slightly.

Geralt watches the two of them together. It’s not like how he’s been training her; teaching her how to stand and swing a blade (a wooden sword, because she is _not_ learning how to use a proper steel weapon just yet) and how to get out of the way of one too. She ends their sessions with her hair mostly out of its usual braid, dusty and with a couple of scratches and grazes on her elbows and face.

She loves it, of course. A Princess would never have such training. But she takes to the blade like it’s always been a part of her arm.

Yennefer talks to her. A lot. Geralt doesn’t always listen in, content to let the two of them be alone for however long their lessons last that day. But when he does, he stands outside Yennefer’s door, always left slightly ajar, and listens. They talk about magic as a whole: where it came from, how it can manifest itself, and how it can kill if left unmanaged.

Geralt doesn’t see anything come out of Ciri. No wisps of magic or energy. Instead, Yennefer always gets them to sit in front of the hearth, on a fur rug, and they meditate. Sometimes, the sorceress talks. “Just sit there,” she says. “And just be. Whatever is inside you, it’ll make itself known. Don’t be afraid of it.”

Ciri’s eyes are closed, and she’s utterly still. But Geralt lifts his chin when he sees the hearth’s fire illuminate a small frown creasing along her brow. “I think I feel it,” she says softly, the words mumbled from her lips.

“It has a vessel inside of you,” Yennefer continues. “And if it wants to keep living, it needs to protect its vessel.”

Ciri opens her eyes. “Whenever I get scared, really scared, it comes out.”

Yennefer nods. “That’s it trying to help you.”

Ciri tilts her head. “Help itself, you mean. If it’s trying to make sure nothing hurts me, is it not just helping itself?”

It earns a light laugh out of the sorceress. “Are you always this quick with remarks, or have you been learning that from Geralt too?”

A shy smile curls along Ciri’s lip. They go back to their mediating, happy to just sit and let whatever is flowing through both of them to course along their veins; always there, and always ready to strike, like a viper in the grass. But with Yennefer there, if something does bare its teeth or hiss, at least Ciri will be okay. She’ll be protected.

* * *

They need to move. Spending too long in one place is never good. The innkeep’s wife hugs Ciri that bit tighter as Geralt straps the last of his bags to Roach’s side. Yennefer hauls herself up on to her own mount, a grey mare kindly _gifted_ to her by one of the soldiers who had departed a few days ago. Geralt arches an eyebrow at the sorceress. She plied the man with enough alcohol and spells to get that horse as a ‘gift’. She had her eye on it for a couple of days beforehand.

“Take care of yourselves,” the innkeep’s wife finally lets Ciri go. No word has travelled about the armies further south. Geralt wants to take it as a good thing. No word means that the soldiers may have just set up camp in the south. Maybe they want to secure that first before travelling north.

But it could also mean that they _are_ moving. And no word is travelling because no one is escaping. There hasn’t been a swell of refugees through the town in the past two weeks. And the silence is deafening.

Ciri reaches out for Geralt and he lifts her up on to Roach’s back. She slides forward slightly, resting on Roach’s withers. Normally, the mare would have bucked anyone else but Geralt off the moment their feet left the ground. But the mare had been plied with apple slices and sugar cubes by the girl for weeks. Geralt pretended not to notice.

Once they’ve both mounted their horses and set out from the town, the quietness on the roads is stark. Yennefer pulls her mare up beside Roach. “The roads had been so packed before,” she says.

Geralt hums. Chatter from other travellers had joined them before on their first entrance into the town. Wagons creaked with the weight of families and their belongings, and horses and mules chopped at their bites, pawing the ground as there was this silent and quiet panic simmering over everyone.

Now, all he can hear is the rhythmic clopping of horse hooves and the swaying of leaves in the canopy above.

Ciri sits back against Geralt’s chest. “Do you think they can be stopped?” she looks up at the Witcher.

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t know.”

He can feel Yennefer boring a fiery look into the side of his face. “Soldiers have been sent south to see what they can do,” she says instead. “And I’m sure the other kingdoms are making their own plans too.”

Geralt bites his tongue. Some kingdoms will call their banners. Others will hide behind their stone walls. A small handful of them may do nothing at all, right up until their invaders are at their gates, and then allegiances will suddenly be called; usually to whoever is winning. He’s lived long enough to know what kings and their courts do when war starts.

But he keeps it to himself. Ciri doesn’t need to hear any of that.

They travel during the daylight hours. With winter set on settling over the continent early, the days have been getting colder and shorter. Camping by the roadside isn’t ideal, but with the next town another couple of leagues away, and the sun starting to fall over some nearby hills, they’ll have to.

They tether their horses to some low branches, making sure there is enough slack in the ties so that they can graze contently. Geralt finds some firewood, while both Yennefer and Ciri set up a tent and bedrolls.

Within the hour, a fire is going and tiredness soon sets in. Geralt watches the flames lap and lick the wooden blocks. With some dried, cured meat and a couple of loaves of bread, their supper wasn’t like it had been for the past couple of weeks. But no one complained.

Geralt lifts his gaze at the sound of shuffling. Yennefer sits across from him, with Ciri’s head pillowed on her lap. The sorceress cards her fingers through Ciri’s hair. The girl fell asleep a couple of minutes ago, but had been teetering on the edge of it for almost an hour. Warmed by the fire, it didn’t take long for sleep to pull her under.

Yennefer looks down at the girl pillowed on her lap. “Can I speak to you about something?” Yennefer suddenly says, directing her voice at Geralt though her eyes don’t leave Ciri. “Plainly.”

Geralt nods.

Yennefer opens her mouth, but for a moment, nothing comes out. She takes a moment to organise her thoughts. “What do you think of me?”

Geralt tilts his head. “What do you mean?” Because there is a hundred different ways that particular question could be read.

She huffs, adjusting her seat slightly so Ciri can bury her nose into Yennefer’s stomach. The sorceress keeps combing through her hair, keeping her contently floating in sleep. “I thought about you often, when we parted ways after the dragon hunt. I thought about what you said to me. And what I said to you.”

_It’s not because of anything real or true._

_You made a wish._

_It’s magic._

And it still stings. Geralt almost winces with it, like a blade had nicked his skin. The words, even years old, still sting as bad as they did back then.

“I once said to you that the only reason I felt...things...for you was because of your wish from the djinn,” her voice is low, careful of the stillness that has settled around them. “I thought about it. All of it.”

Yennefer looks at him through the fire’s flames. “Did you...feel things for me?”

He doesn’t know. Forces are at play here, and that’s the only word he can really think of to describe what’s happening. _Play_. Whoever is in charge of life, of the universe, whether it’s a god, a pantheon, or a spirit, they’re playing; tugging on strings, crossing and knotting them and then cutting ties loose. He isn’t sure what to think of anything anymore. But, with Yennefer’s gaze still baring into him, Geralt lifts his chin. “I did once,” he answers honestly.

He’ll stay with her. For Ciri. It’s Ciri that is holding them both together, and he’s made his peace with it. She needs him and she needs Yennefer. She won’t be able to do whatever it is she needs to do without them.

“And now?”

Geralt sighs. “I’m not sure.”

He watches Yennefer’s face, waiting for emotions to bubble to the surface. Instead, the sorceress nods. “Alright,” she says softly, looking down at the girl in her lap, and twirling strands of straw-coloured hair around her fingers.

* * *

The next town is encased by a wall. On that wall, Geralt squints through the bright sun that’s managed to fight its way through the heavy grey clouds above, are posted sentinels. Each of them holds a bow and a quiver strapped to their backs. As they ride towards the main gates, Geralt keeps one eye on the archers and their quivers.

The gates are closed; occasionally hauled open by the waving of a guard’s hand. They’re dressed in nice armour, gleaming in the light with not a scratch on it. Geralt hums. Guards that have never seen so much of a bar fight, let alone the end of a sword. Most of the travellers in front of them are turned away. Those who argue against the guards are pulled to one side. Geralt frowns when wagons and horses are stripped of their supplies, each bag and box being examined by a guard while those who walked watch.

When it’s their turn, Geralt sits that bit straight on Roach’s back. Ciri rests against his chest, his cloak wrapped around them both, shielding her from a nipping winter wind. When a guard in golden amour approaches them, she burrows back against the chest behind her.

The guard has his helm held underneath his arm. His sword is sheathed at his hip. As he walks towards them, there’s a certain arrogant swagger about his stride. “Where are you lot from?” he calls out.

Yennefer answers for them. “Sodden.”

The guard frowns. “Sodden? You’re a long way from home.”

A small snarl lifts the bow of Yennefer’s lip. “There’s a war going on, solider. Have you not heard? The south is completely uprooted.”

“Uprooted? By who?”

“Nilfgaard.”

A sharp barking laugh leaves the soldier. “Nilfgaard? How the fuck did _Nilfgaard_ get so strong that it took the south?”

A rumble goes through the air.

Another soldier, older than the first, waves his hand. “Enough Torick. They won’t cause much trouble,” he turns his worn eyes over to the three of them. “Will you?”

Yennefer shakes her head. “We’re a family just needing refuge like everyone else.” Her words are soft. To any other ear, they would sound sincere. But Geralt knows the woman saying them. He knows how much trouble she could cause if provoked to.

The first soldier – Torick, Geralt remembers the name – doesn’t look entirely convinced, but does step to one side. The gate behind him groans open.

Townsfolk who watch them enter the city watch with narrowed eyes. There’s fire there, Geralt notices. It’s a look he’s been settled with for years. A look of distrust, distaste. One that isn’t at all welcoming. They’ve passed through towns and villages that blankly turn away refugees. They _don’t want that sort of trouble_ , according to one innkeep. Another just shrugged. _You can help yourselves. It was probably you lot who caused that war in the first place_.

Some part of his mind tells him to keep to the main road through the town, keep riding until they get to the northern gates, and head for the next town. But from the cobblestone streets and large buildings neatly filed against the road, from how well people are dressed, he can tell that this town is wealthy. It probably has food and shelter, what they’ve been without for a day and a half.

And from the way Ciri shivers against his chest, he’s fine with staying in a town that dislikes him for the time being.

There are a couple of inns and taverns in the town. Most of them are already full, but they eventually find one that isn’t – and willing to shelter and feed them. Geralt helps Ciri drop down from Roach. He follows, bringing the mare’s reins over her head. “Will we be safe here?” the girl says lowly, drifting closer to his side.

He peers down at her. “We’ll be fine,” he answers simply. _I’ll keep you safe. Don’t worry._

Yennefer holds out her hand for Ciri. “Come, let’s get the horses settled.”

Handing over Roach’s reins is still an odd sensation. His fingers, for a split second, don’t let go. It isn’t until Ciri peers up at him that he allows his mare to go with her. And, what still surprised Geralt every day, is that the mare actually _walks_ with the girl. She nudges Ciri’s shoulder with her muzzle, undoubtedly looking for a treat he knows she has stored away beneath her cloak.

The inn is large, at least two-stories, with a basement underneath. It’s well populated, Geralt notices, when he steps inside. Most of the ground floor is a tavern, with maids drifting from table to table, arms laden with full plates and jugs of ale and mead. The scent of it warms his bones.

The innkeep regards him for a moment. “Is it just yourself, Witcher?”

“Two others,” Geralt says. “One is a child.”

The innkeep arches a pale, fading eyebrow. But says nothing of it. “You can either have one room for a gold and silver piece, or two rooms for three gold. Beds and hearths in both. Breakfast isn’t included in that price, mind you.”

Geralt fishes out his coin purse. “Two rooms,” he says simply, sliding the three gold pieces over the polished wooden counter.

The innkeep nods and drops down on to his haunches. He fishes something out from underneath the counter. “Here you go,” he hands two keys to Geralt. He gestures to a flight of wooden stairs beside the bar. “The rooms are next to each other at the end of the hall.”

Geralt bows his head in thanks.

* * *

He can’t sleep. Sleep isn’t a great friend of his. It evades him sometimes, taunting him by allowing him to close his eyes and drift down and down until it flitters away. No amount of salves and ointments made of oats and lavender help. Neither does potions meant to take away pain. No matter how many times he pleads to gods to let him sleep, it never comes.

So he goes downstairs and sits himself in a booth in the furthest and darkest corner of the tavern. The innkeep’s eldest daughter, a kind young woman with hair the colour of fire and ocean eyes sets another tankard in front of him. He grunts a _thanks_. The girl lingers for a moment, but when it becomes apparent that Geralt is more interested in the drink in front of him than her eyes or lips or cinched waist, she turns and leaves.

The three of them retired early for the night. After travelling, bones tend to grow weary and sore. And nothing heals them like an inn’s bed can. Yennefer and Ciri stay in one room. When Geralt had passed, the door was closed and, presumably, locked. It settles his chest slightly, knowing that he can leave the girl with someone he trusts. It’s an odd sensation. He hasn’t been able to _trust_ anyone for a long time. But with Ciri’s wellbeing off of his mind for the moment, his chest can fill without being constricted with fear and worry.

Ale won’t help him sleep. No amount of alcohol in the world will be able to have an effect on him, thanks to the mutations. But the taste of a well-milled ale is just a nice thing to revel in with each sip he takes. The night slowly passes him. Another of the innkeep’s daughters, much younger than the first, keeps the main hearth alight with wood and coal. A couple of local farmers warm themselves in front of it. Coopers and smiths and bakers are throughout the rest of the tavern. They keep to their own groups, drinking and conversing amongst themselves. Occasionally, someone will throw a glance over to Geralt. But it’s sent away when Geralt looks right back.

The door to the tavern creaks open. Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound. He doesn’t bother lifting his gaze up to see who it is. People have been flowing in and out of the tavern all night. But what does take him by surprise is a chorus of yells and cheers. _There he is!_ someone laughs. _Have you finally returned to us bard?_ another shouts.

“You all know I couldn’t stay away for long!”

Geralt’s head snaps up. The continent is big, but not fucking big enough apparently.

In all the years that have trudged by, he hasn’t even heard a whisper about Jaskier. Which always struck him as odd. A bard wanting to make a name for himself would be talked about. And Geralt kept travelling, kept taking contracts from one part of the continent to the next, and not once did he even hear about a bard in any tavern or inn that he stayed in.

Jaskier doesn’t see him, and Geralt doesn’t know which god or goddess to thank. The crowd parts for him, letting him walk straight for the main bar. The innkeep waves him over, already pouring out some wine into a glass. But it’s not the innkeep or the drink that Jaskier smiles at. Geralt narrows his eyes. A well-built man that has been at the counter outstretches his arm. Jaskier’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, taking the man’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled into his side. Geralt watches as the man’s arm settles around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him close.

“I haven’t seen you in a few days, little lark,” the man grins, settling his lips against Jaskier’s temple. “Where have you been?”

“The Viscount Roland wanted a word,” Jaskier replies, plucking the wine glass up by its stem. He barely has the glass to his mouth before the man who has him trapped claims his mouth. One of the man’s hands reaches out, taking the glass from his hand and setting it shakily down on to the wooden counter. Jaskier’s hand stills in the air for a moment, before his fingers reach for the man’s hair.

Geralt looks down at his ale. _Melitele fucking help me_. He could never be drunk enough to deal with any of this. 

* * *

“Stop laughing.”

Yennefer tries to hide her smile into the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she grins, “it’s just funny.”

“ _Funny_?”

Yennefer lifts a shoulder. “And you said what to him? That everything bad that ever happened to you was his fault?” Geralt tries not to wince. He knows damn well what he said. It’s only been echoing in his head with the rest of his mistakes for years. Yennefer plucks a fried slice of potato off of his plate, halving it on her own and giving the other half to Ciri. “Explain that to me. I’m not sure I understand.”

Geralt frowns down at his breakfast. It’s ample enough: a gold coin bought them all plates laden with meat and potatoes and eggs. It fills their stomachs quickly, after weeks spent gnawing on strips of cured meats and slices of bread.

Ciri looks up from her own food. “It _is_ pretty stupid,” she shrugs.

Geralt’s head snaps to the side. “Eat,” he orders, turning back to Yennefer with pointed finger. “I was angry,” he reasoned. “I thought I felt things for you, and you left me on that mountain. I just...I was angry.”

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. “So it’s my fault?”

Geralt’s mouth opens. “How-How did I say it was _your_ fault?”

“Just leave it,” Ciri says simply, fitting an entire slice of bacon into her mouth. Chewing through her words, she looks up at him. “You’re obviously just going to dig yourself into another hole.”

Yennefer smiles at her, but ultimately goes back to finishing her breakfast. Geralt still stares at her, wondering how a woman’s mind works. But he follows Ciri’s advice; _leaving it._

With her breakfast finished, Yennefer turns to Ciri. “There’s a forest just outside the town walls,” she says, gathering her cloak. “We’ll have a lesson on herbology today. Meet me outside the tavern in ten minutes.”

Ciri perks up. Before she can clamber over him, Geralt gestures to her plate in front of her. “Finish your food,” he says simply. He can feel Ciri’s stare boring into the side of his head, but with a small sulk, she scrapes the last of her potatoes and eggs together.

Yennefer gives him a small smile. “I’ll bring her back in one piece,” she says, sliding out of the booth. Fastening her cloak around her shoulders, Yennefer pats his shoulder. “We can leave you by yourself, yeah? You don’t need us to defend you against any vengeful bards if they find out that you’re here?”

Geralt almost snarls at her laugh. “Just gather whatever you need and go.”

Ciri’s shoulders bounce with her own laughter. “Eat your damn breakfast,” Geralt grumbles at her, pulling his tankard over and gulping down the last of the wine.

The tavern is quiet. The farmers have already gone outside the city walls, tending to their fields and animals. Smiths have fired up the forges and coopers are rolling barrels up through the cobblestone roads outside. Some of them have already delivered barrels of ale and wine into the back of the tavern already.

“Geralt?”

_Just keep looking at your plate. He might not even be talking to you._

**_How many fucking Geralts do you think exist on the continent?_ **

Geralt lifts his head. Jaskier stares back at him, his face completely unreadable. The years that have passed have been kind to him. Lines crease the outside corners of his eyes and his lips, but his skin is still clear and his hair is still the colour of tree bark. The bard lifts his chin. “I heard that there was a Witcher in town.”

There’s a lump sticking in his throat. A small elbow suddenly juts into his side.

Jaskier’s gaze falls on to Ciri. “Who’s this?”

A girl with similar colouring, but the top of her head barely reaches Geralt’s shoulder. He can only imagine what it looks like. The only instance where they’ll be willingly offered a room for the night is when innkeepers or townsfolk think of them as a father and his young daughter. He doesn’t like it, but if it ensures a roof and warm bed will be provided for Ciri, he’ll play on people’s emotions as best as he can. 

When Geralt doesn’t speak, Ciri mutters through a mouth of potato and egg. “Is he a friend?”

Jaskier snorts. “No, child. I haven’t been that in years, apparently.”

Geralt hides a wince. He sighs, sitting back slightly to let Jaskier see more of the girl. “This is Ciri,” he says lowly. Only a handful of people know the girl’s actual name. The town knows her as _Fiona_. But it’s Jaskier.

“Ciri...” Jaskier says slowly. His brows knit together. “As in...Ciri, Calanthe’s granddaughter?”

Geralt regards the bard for a moment, before nodding.

Jaskier’s mouth opens, and for the first time in his life, nothing comes out.

At another moment of nothing being said, Ciri reaches over Geralt and holds out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jaskier.”

The bard tilts his head, but shakes Ciri’s hand nonetheless. “You know my name?”

Ciri nods. “Yennefer and Geralt spoke about you,” she says simply.

 _If you were anyone else, I’d have you gagged_ , Geralt thinks bitterly, staring at the girl.

Jaskier’s brows lift. “Yennefer? She’s here too, is she?”

Looking over to Ciri, Geralt settles her with a firm stare. “Who’s probably waiting for you outside. Go to your lesson.”

Ciri lifts her chin, a retort at the tip of her tongue. But Geralt’s stare hardens. She squares her jaw before huffing. “Fine.” Geralt stands to let her out of the booth. He watches her navigate the sparse morning crowd inside in the tavern. When she opens the door, Geralt catches a quick glimpse of Yennefer’s cloak. The sorceress holds out a hand for the girl, beckoning her to follow.

“A Witcher and a sorceress looking after the welfare of a Princess.” Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “What a nice little family you’ve made for yourself.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Tell me how it’s not like that, Geralt.” Jaskier growls. “Because looking at it from the outside, it seems that you’ve carved out the idyllic little scene of family life. If only the rest of us were so lucky. Pretty good for someone who had been apparently plagued with a life full of _shit_.”

“Jaskier-”

“-Well, Melitele preserve your happiness,” Jaskier says curtly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I hope everything works out for you in the end.” Turning on his heel, the bard walks through the tavern.

Geralt wills his feet to step forward and follow. But instead, something anchors him to the ground. He watches the bard leave, and it’s like an afterimage. His hair drifts with the blow of winter wind, and his chest constricts.

* * *

Overheard whispers tell him that Jaskier is doing well for himself. Armed with a collection of new ballads and songs, he’s been earning a lot of coin for the past couple of years. It’s bought him lodgings in the town’s wealthier district, a patronage offered to him by a Viscount and his wife. He sings in each of the town’s taverns weekly, and whenever celebrations are held for feast days or weddings, Jaskier will be there.

He’s happy for the bard. Really, he is. Words that he had barked at the bard return to him like ghosts, whispering over his shoulders and just not leaving him the _fuck_ alone. He winces every time they surface. With all the pain that he caused the bard, he’s genuinely happy that happiness could find him and let him nest.

“Stop it,” Yennefer brushes past him on her way to her bath. She’s already bare, her clothes scattered over the floorboards of her room. The bath is already drawn. Steam rises up into the air, carrying with it the scent of lavender and orange blossom. It warms Geralt’s bones, and for a second, he wants to return to his own room and draw himself a bath. But Yennefer’s piercing stare keeps him pinned to the edge of her bed.

It’s fucking ridiculous. He’s not a child. And yet here he is, being told off like a youngling.

Geralt doesn’t look – even with the sorceress assuring her that this is in _no way_ sexual. She isn’t inviting him to join. She just likes bathing, and she needs to shout at Geralt. So why not kill two birds with one stone. Yennefer settles into her bath, sighing when the water laps against her collarbone.

Geralt balks. “Stop what?”

She gestures to his face with a suds laden hand. “Whatever it is that is making you look more constipated than usual,” she snaps, gathering a handful of water and streaming it over her hair. “I can only assume it’s the bard.”

“Yenn-”

She points a finger at him. “Shut up. I’m not finished.” She sits back against the lip of the bath, staring up at the ceiling posts. “Do you like him? The bard? That’s what I thought when I first met the two of you. You certainly carried yourselves like a married couple living on the land.”

Geralt keeps his jaw shut.

Yennefer’s head rolls and she looks at him. “Do you want to apologise for what you said to him?”

There’s a lump forming in his throat. “Yes,” he manages to get out through it.

Yennefer’s eyes soften, albeit slightly. “Do you feel things for him?”

“Yenn-”

“-It’s alright,” she says. “Tell me; do you?”

And he just sits there. Does he? He missed the bard, that’s true. In the years that trudge past after the mountain, his mind would drift, wondering what Jaskier was doing with his life. Did he even make it off of the mountain? Did something apprehend him before he even made it to the foot? And the thought of it always put a cold feeling in his chest. The same sort of feeling he got if he ever thought about harm befalling Yennefer or Ciri.

A small smile flickers over Yennefer’s lips. “You do,” she says simply. “It’s buried deep, but something is there.”

Geralt looks down at his hands resting on his lap.

“Now,” she settles into her bath. “Get the fuck out and apologise. Your sulking is driving me insane.”

* * *

Tonight is a night where Geralt finds him in the tavern they’re staying at. By the time Geralt has descended the stairs, Jaskier finishes whatever it was he was singing with a flourish. Geralt looks around. Those not too deep into their dinners or tankards cheer and shout-sing with him. They roar with delight when he finishes. Standing up from his seat, Jaskier holds up a hand. “I’m taking a small break, friends,” he laughs. Geralt watches him. It’s not a laugh that crinkles his eyes. Or even a smile that reaches his cheeks.

Jaskier sets his lute down and stumbles towards the bar. A couple of people greet him as he passes, but ultimately, he falls into a man’s arms again. Geralt frowns. It’s the same man from last time, albeit much cleaner now. He’s a smith, Geralt found out. Without soot darkening his skin, his hands are that much more adventurous as he maps out Jaskier’s body. “Are you sure you don’t want to call it a night, lark?” the man grins to Jaskier’s neck.

Waving down the innkeep’s daughter behind the bar, Jaskier gets his hand on a tankard of ale. “I can’t just leave the audience now, Erik,” he grins. Erik pulls back, looking over Jaskier’s face for a moment. Jaskier nudges him. “Come, let’s sit with your friends.”

Erik’s friends, Geralt follows, are other smiths working in a local forge. They make space for Erik, and Jaskier ends up perching himself on one of Erik’s thighs. An arm loops around Jaskier’s waist, effectively keeping him on his perch.

The small break that Jaskier said he would take turns into a couple of minutes. Those in the tavern don’t seem to mind. No one calls for Jaskier to strike up the lute again. Instead, those around him drink and eat and chat amongst themselves. Geralt wanders through them, waiting for the right time to go over and get Jaskier’s attention.

One of the smiths notices him first. By the time Geralt is standing at the booth, everyone is looking at him but the bard. Erik glares at him. “Fuck off, Witcher.”

Ignoring him, Geralt clears his throat. “Jaskier.”

Erik’s gaze turns hard. Without taking his eyes off of Geralt, Erik directed to Jaskier, “who the fuck is this?”

Jaskier places a hand on Erik’s arm. “It’s alright,” he says simply. Gesturing to his drink, Jaskier smiles. “Could you get me another one?”

Erik looks between them for a minute, but eventually leaves with a grumble. The other smiths leave with him, all watching him out of the corner of their eyes. They don’t go far away, taking up space beside a nearby pillar, leaning against it with their arms over their chest.

“Still here, are you?” Jaskier’s voice is thin, but biting.

“It’s better to have a roof over Ciri’s head,” Geralt reasons, “so yes, we’re still here.”

Without the smiths around, the booth is shockingly empty. It makes Jaskier look smaller than he actually is. But he doesn’t gesture for Geralt to take a seat opposite him, so he stays standing. He takes in the bard; he’s dressed well, and through the slight smell of ale off of his breath, Geralt can smell the oils the bard would have bathed in earlier.

But he doesn’t look at Geralt. Staring down at his hands on the table, Jaskier turns a simple brandished ring around on his thumb. It’s a ring he had before he even met Geralt. And the fidgeting is a nervous habit. The bard has always done it, even unconsciously.

Geralt sighs. “You’re angry-”

Jaskier’s head snaps up. “Yeah, no shit, Geralt.”

“-And you’re drunk,” Geralt continues, eyeing the other empty tankard on the table that he’s sure doesn’t belong to anyone else. “I’m not talking to you when you’re drunk. So sober up.”

“Don’t talk to me _at all_ ,” Jaskier hisses, leaning forward. “I was perfectly fine before you showed up.”

And he’s probably a dick for it, but he can’t stop the small smirk curling the side of his mouth. “Sure you were.”

If it were anyone else, he would have gotten that metal tankard into his temple long ago. But it’s Jaskier, and while Geralt isn’t going to sit here and say that the bard isn’t harmless – he instantly ordered a djinn to enact a pretty brutal death of a man, for gods’ sake – Jaskier _can_ control himself. Even with more mead and ale in his veins than blood.

But that isn’t to say that he doesn’t have a thorn tongue. “Go fuck yourself, Geralt,” he bites, standing up from the booth and staggering out into the tavern. The man who had been with him is still staring at Geralt with a withering glare. He only breaks it when Jaskier stumbles into his side. Through the hum of the tavern, Geralt can’t make out what the man says to Jaskier. They have a small exchange before Jaskier loops his arms around the man’s neck. There’s a feeling that settles in Geralt’s chest. Something that coils around his lungs and heart and squeezes, pushing the air out of him. He’s defended himself against and fought all manner of demons and beasts in the wilds, but nothing has ever made him feel like this.

Before he knows what’s happening, his feet carry him across the tavern. Jaskier’s lips hover just out of reach of Erik’s. Before they can meet, Geralt reaches out and grabs the back of Jaskier’s tunic, hauling him backwards. “Come with me,” he growls. He lets go, because even though something is heating his blood, he isn’t going to hurt Jaskier.

Erik squares his shoulders. “What the fuck is your problem, mutant?” he snarls, taking a step towards Geralt. He’s only stopped when Jaskier puts a hand squarely on his chest.

“Leave it,” Jaskier says quietly, putting himself between the two men. Looking over his shoulder, he glares at Geralt. “I thought I told you to fuck off?”

“I need to talk to you,” Geralt frowns.

“He told you to fuck off,” Erik says.

“Is your name _Jaskier_?” Geralt snaps. “No? Then I’m not talking to you, am I?”

The smith growls. Over his broad shoulders, Geralt can see the others coming closer. One even makes a show of rolling up his sleeves. It takes everything in him not to laugh. Even with more of them than him, he can put each of them on the ground quicker than they can blink.

Jaskier seems to know that too. “Fine,” he grumbles. He turns back to Erik. “Tell Bjorn I’ll be back in a minute.”

The smith’s mouth drops open, but before he can utter a word, Jaskier has turned on his heel and starts walking towards one of the doors that leads towards the alley outside the tavern. Geralt follows. Jaskier expertly navigates the crowds, weaving around each person. Geralt has a harder time. Whether or not people were listening in on the small spat that he had with the smiths, some people’s shoulders catch his. His hands curl into fists by his side. _Not here_ , he has to tell himself.

There’s a small alleyway separating the tavern from the next building. Empty wooden boxes are stacked to one side, ready to be collected in the morning. Lounging on along the edge of a box is a tomcat, who blinks at them both as they step out into the alley – but makes no move to get up and leave.

Jaskier turns, arms folded tightly across his chest. In a thin, linen shirt, it doesn’t do much to chase off the winter chill. “Why the fuck are you here, Geralt?” he asks.

Geralt tries not to cock his head. Jaskier’s voice holds none of the heat it did inside. Instead, all that’s laced through his words is...tiredness. Weariness. Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m keeping Ciri safe,” he answers simply. “We couldn’t stay in the south any longer.”

Jaskier frowns. “So what? You thought you’d outrun them by heading north?”

Geralt walks over to the wall of the tavern, setting his back against it. “Ciri has something to do with it, with all of it,” he continues, picking at a stray thread fraying from the end of his tunic. “But she’s a child. She has no training.”

“I didn’t know you would be here.”

Jaskier snorts. “Thought so.” His arms tighten around himself. “Didn’t think you would even think about me, to be honest. Since I was such a burden.”

Geralt visibly winces. Even in the dim moonlight overhead, and the reaching light of streetlamps a couple of feet away on the main road outside, Jaskier can see it. “I did think about you,” Geralt says quietly. He’s worried that the bard might not even have heard him for a moment, with the hum of conversation and jest rumbling through the tavern behind him. But Jaskier does turn to face him, settling him with a look that prompts him to keep talking. “I thought about you when I got down from that mountain. I wondered if you did the same. Did you even get to the bottom? If you did, where did you go? What kind of life you would have made for yourself.”

Jaskier’s eyes don’t move from him. After a moment, a harsh sigh of breath leaves the bard. “What you said to me...” he shakes his head. “It fucking stung, Geralt. Worse than any blow from a fist or blade.”

“I know.”

“I got to a town and I sang for my supper. Fell in with a local family and they helped me, for a time.”

Geralt looks down at the cobblestones beneath his feet. It’s better than looking at the pain settling behind Jaskier’s eyes.

“I felt something for you once. And when you said those things to me, it’s like you took my heart and just fucking threw it off of that mountain. And the worst part about all of it?” Jaskier’s voice wavers slightly. “I couldn’t shake myself from you. I heard about you from others – people that you had helped. You still lived and worked and stories of you spread like wildfire. And I still _cared_ enough to listen. I wanted to know that you were still alive. When people would curse your name, I got angry. And I would defend you. And I hated myself for it, but I still felt something for you and it tore me up inside.”

Geralt lifts his head. He swallows at the sight of a tear streaming down Jaskier’s cheek. His hands twitch by his side. He wants to wipe it away. He wants to do a lot of things; gather the bard in his arms, in an embrace, shield him from the cold, and say how sorry he is.

Before he can even realise what he’s doing, his mouth opens and words pour out like a stream. “I’m sorry,” Geralt breathes. “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. For everything I said. I didn’t mean it. I was angry and fed up but I had no right to take my frustrations out on you.”

Jaskier sniffs. He rubs at his face with one hand.

The door to the alley opens and a couple of men stumble out, staggering towards the main street while holding on to each other. Standing so close to the wall, shielded by shadow, both Geralt and Jaskier are hidden. The men don’t even stop to realise that they’re there. When they’re out of earshot, Jaskier clears his throat. “I thought you would have been chasing the sorceress.”

“I...I thought I felt something for her. But not anymore,” Geralt says simply. “It’s not what I feel for you.”

Jaskier winces. “Don’t say that. Don’t say things like that to me.”

“But I mean it.” Geralt steps forward, expecting the bard to take the same space back. When he doesn’t, Geralt lets one hand tentatively reach out. “I...Yenn and I are only with each other for Ciri. She needs us both to teach her things. She’s entwined with both of us. But you’re different to me. I...” Geralt frowns, looking down, as if the words he’s searching for are down there.

He tries not to jolt when fingers drift against his. Geralt watches blankly as his fingers are snared by Jaskier’s. They curl and entwine.

Geralt clears his throat. “What about the smith?”

“Erik?” Jaskier makes a noise in the back of his throat. “He’s a lay that ended up getting too close. That’s all.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “He seems pretty smitten with you.”

Jaskier looks down at their joined hands. “That’s a word for it.”

A quiet moment passes them. Something settles in the pit of Geralt’s stomach; a cold feeling that’s been a friend of his for the past couple of days. “Do you feel the same for him?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier replies quickly. “He’s...He was nice company, but truthfully, I have had better conversations with a stone wall.”

A short laugh escapes Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier looks up at him. “I accept your apology,” he says quietly, eyes taking in Geralt’s face. In the time that he’s been without the bard, more scars and lines have been added to his skin. Geralt dips his head down slightly, eyes drifting to Jaskier’s lips. They’re red, painted from the maroon wine flowing in the tavern.

He chases them with his own, but Jaskier pulls back slightly. His eyes harden. “If you ever raise your voice to me again, I’ll fucking kill you with your own sword.”

A toothy smile spreads over Geralt’s face. “I have every belief that you would, bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just shoehorn in the fact that Geralt loves Jaskier despite making no mention of it in previous chapters? 
> 
> Maybe.
> 
> It's my fic. I do what I want. 
> 
> I also really don't like how this chapter is written but I'm depressed and had a birthday and am very tired (not necessarily in that order)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Kudos & Comments much appreciated!
> 
> [I'm eternally grateful for the fact that it is Canon that a man is suddenly a Dad, because it's a trope I force on to other fandoms lmfao]


End file.
